


Clam Strips

by LadySheik



Series: Fevers and Needles [1]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Allergies, F/M, Fluff, MC is a You, Man Do You Ever Write Something And Revisit It And Realize It Was Good, Same OC As Fevers And Needles (another of my works), Sick Fic, Whump, no y/n, this is a first for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 03:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19098622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySheik/pseuds/LadySheik
Summary: While on a vacation to help with your asthma and allergies, you accidentally eat some shellfish. Jumin, however, doesn't know about this particular allergy...Sort of a prequel to the Fevers and Needles fic I wrote forever ago, but it can stand independently. This is an expansion of something briefly mentioned in the other fic.





	Clam Strips

You looked so beautiful in the sunshine. Jumin had seen plenty of women, at meeting and parties and on vacations that you insisted were never really vacations, since he was there for work. But seeing you took his breath away every time.

 

Right now, you were walking along the ocean, sandals in one hand as you let the crashing waves rush up and over your toes. You insisted that the best shells could be found right on the water's edge. Jumin didn't mind – he knew that the salt air was good for your asthma.

 

You squealed. “Jumin, look! A starfish!” You grasped one of the arms and held it up for him to see. “It's purple!”

 

He smiled. Jumin never felt that he smiled at you enough. You were always smiling at him, big unrestrained grins that showed all your teeth and made your eyes crinkle at the edges. You laughed whenever he brought it up.

 

“It's lovely. Should we keep it?”

 

You considered this for a minute, then shook your head. “No. It might still be alive, and even if it's not, it'll start to rot soon. We'll leave it here.” You walked a few steps forward, the water swishing around your ankles, and crouched to let the starfish go. “Bye, little guy!”

 

Jumin was still smiling at you, head tilted to the side. He glanced at the horizon and blinked, eyes wide. “Sweetheart, look out!”

 

You turned and gasped just in time to get a mouthful of seawater as a small wave broke over the top of you and sent you tumbling into the sandy beach.

 

* * *

 

You were struggling with your boots when Jumin came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. You nearly fell over in surprise.

 

“What are you doing home?” you asked. It was a little confusing, but you gave him a bright smile. You were always happy to see him.

 

His smile was more reserved, but that was just how Jumin was. “I wanted to be here when you got home. How did the visit go?” You could see the concerned in his eyes despite his measured tone. He was worried.

 

You waved your hand dismissively, turning your attention back to your boot. “I'm fine. The doctor said the shortness of breath was from my asthma. The city's only moderately polluted, but my delicate lungs can't handle it for long periods.”

  
Jumin made a soft humming noise, his brow furrowed. “Is there anything we can do to fix it?”

 

You laughed. “Short of getting me new lungs? No, honey, there's nothing that can be done. It's just how I am.”

 

“But surely there are things that ease the suffering,” he said, moving over to help you with your shoes.

 

You leaned on the wall in relief, letting Jumin's nimble fingers take care of the laces.  “Uh, well, I wouldn't call it suffering, but... salt air is good for me.” You paused for a minute, searching for the words in Korean. “The salt particles reduce the water and mucus in my lungs, and there's less allergens because of the ocean breeze. Other than that, I can start carrying my inhaler around again.” That brought out a small sigh from you. “I haven't done that in years.”

 

Jumin slipped your boots off your feet and lead you to the couch. “I'm sorry.”

 

You sank into the couch cushions, grateful to be off your feet. “Don't be. It's not your fault my lungs suck.”

 

He takes your hands in his and kisses the backs of them. “That doesn't mean I'm not sorry it's happening.”

 

You pulled his hands down and placed a lingering kiss on each of his knuckles, soft and chaste. When you finished, Jumin spoke.

 

“I'm almost finished with an early dinner for us – you wait here.”

 

You watched Jumin as he disappeared into the kitchen before letting your head fall back with a sigh. Stupid lungs, always ruining everything, ever since you were a kid: in and out of hospitals, unable to breath, with no clear solution to the alarming sensitivity.   


Jumin was understanding. He always was. But you still felt bad that you weren't physically up to walking around parks all day or going out at night. Years of on and off hospitalization had left you physically weak, beyond your respiratory problems, and you often just didn't have the stamina to manage a full day out. It made you feel like you were trapping him in the house – not, you reminded yourself, that he went out a whole lot before marrying you.

 

You sighed and readjusted yourself on the couch, resting your head on one of the throw pillows and closing your eyes. Just for a minute, you promised yourself.

 

When Jumin came back, you were fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

You were still soaked and dripping wet by the time the two of you got back to the rental car. Jumin was quick to pull a towel out of the trunk and wrap it around you. You laughed as he rubbed it up and down your various extremities in a futile attempt to dry your clothes.

 

“Jumin, honey, I'll be fine. Let's just head back to the rental so I can change, and then we can get some lunch, yeah?”

 

He looked up at you from where he was kneeling to see that you were smiling at him again, brighter than the sun. “Are you sure you can drive?”

 

That made you laugh, hard enough that you doubled over. You kissed him on the forehead as your shoulders shook, and he could feel the salt on your lips. “It's just salt water. The worst that can happen is a nasty taste in my mouth and sand in my underwear. I'm more that capable of driving.”

 

Jumin wasn't convinced, but he couldn't drive, so he ceded to you as the expert. It was weird for him to sit in the passenger seat and not the back, but it was comforting to see that the wheel was on the left side of the car – business often took him places where the car and traffic were flipped. It made his skin crawl the same way that diagonal stripes on ties did.

 

The house Jumin had rented for the two of you wasn't far, and you were up and out of the car the minute you threw the gearshift into park. Literally, threw the gearshift – it made a heavy thunking noise as you shoved it forward. Jumin looked at it for a moment, remembering your brothers saying something about you being a drag racer when you were younger. He had brushed it off as a joke, or miscommunication, since English wasn't his first language, but he was starting to wonder whether it was true.

 

By the time Jumin had collected himself, your shells, and the strange backpack-like thing you carried instead of a purse, you were already in the shower. He could hear running water from the bathroom. He took off his boots, big rubber affairs that you insisted would keep the sand off his feet, and sat in one of the chairs around the table, content to wait for you.

 

It didn't take you long to change. You came out, toweling your hair dry and wearing a blue and white striped sundress. He smiled at you and handed you your bag, which you took with a grateful smile.

 

“Ready?” you asked. Though you sounded cheerful as ever, Jumin could hear the tired edge to your voice.

 

“We can stay here and make lunch if you're too tired,” Jumin suggested, getting to his feet. “I don't want you to exhaust yourself.”

 

You shook your head and moved to the door. “There was a cute little seafood shack that looked like they served patty melts! We have to go.”

 

Jumin nodded to your retreating back, an easy smile on his face.

 

* * *

 

Jumin ordered for the two of you. You were in the bathroom, so he didn't really have another choice. He supposed he could have waited for you, but you already told him what you wanted, so he didn't think that it would be an issue.

 

Patty melt on garlic sourdough and caramelized onions with onion rings on the side for you. You loved onion rings. For him, he got a fish and chips basket with a side of clam strips – he'd never had them before, and he was interested to see how they tasted. You were, after all, always encouraging him to try new things.

 

You returned, hair messy and cheeks red from the brisk sea breeze. He held onto your hand, running his thumbs over your knuckles as the two of you looked out over the water. The silence was easy, companionable – it was one of his favorite things about being with you. Not that he didn't love your voice, because he did. It was more the fact that you were comfortable enough with him, and vice versa, that words didn't always need to be spoken. Your mere presence was enough of a comfort to him.

 

The food arrived quickly – the restaurant was almost empty, which you assured him was normal for a Thursday afternoon. It wasn't tourist season, and everyone would be at work.

 

The onion rings were the first thing you attacked on your plate, your vigor upsetting Jumin's food and shaking some of it onto your plate. Your apologies were thick and profuse, cheeks reddened with embarrassment, but Jumin simply leaned across the table to kiss you, letting you know that it was alright.

 

You had been talking about the tides when it happened. Your face was bright with excitement as you explained how, in essence, the moon was trying to steal the sea but was very, very bad at it. You popped one of your onion rings in your mouth and stopped mid-sentence, chewing thoughtfully.

 

“What's wrong, my love?” Jumin asked, confused. You weren't one to stop for anything when you were deep into an explanation.

 

“This isn't... this doesn't taste right.”

 

His brow furrowed. “Should I call the waiter over?”

 

You still looked contemplative as you swallowed. “No, it doesn't taste bad, I've just never tasted anything like-” You cut yourself off as your eyes widened in a startled panic. One hand came up to scratch your throat as you asked, “What did you order?”

 

Jumin was alarmed by the octave rise in your voice. “Fish and chips? And a side order of clam strips?”

 

All the blood drained from your face. Jumin could hear your breathing getting raspy, and your hands were scrambling around inside your bag. Your face and throat were starting to get red and splotchy... were they swelling?  


“Call the ambulance,” you rasped, still scrabbling around in your bag. When you looked up, Jumin was still frozen in shock and horror, staring at you. “Call an ambulance!” you said with more force, eyes wide with fear.

 

Jumin jumped to his feet, pulling his phone out of his pocket to dial emergency services. He circled around the table to stand next to you, fighting the panic that rose in his throat. What was happening to you?  


“911, what's your emergency?” a man on the other end of the phone asked.

 

“My wife, she's...” he paused, lacking the words.

 

You're breathing was short and shallow, and he watched in horror as you pulled a green pen out of a case and clicked a button, revealing a long needle that glinted in the sun. Jumin let out a strangled cry as you stabbed it into your thigh.

 

“Sir?” the dispatcher said. “Sir, I need you to tell me what's happening.”

 

“My, my wife, she's just stabbed some kind of needle into her leg, she asked me to call an ambulance, I-” Jumin knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop himself.

 

“Sir, tell me where you are, and I'll send an ambulance to your location.”

 

Jumin took a sharp breath to steady himself and recited the name of the restaurant and its location. He had grabbed you by the shoulders and lowered you off the chair while he did, and he was now cradling you on the floor of the nearly empty restaurant.

 

The other people had noticed the commotion, and one young man was kneeling next to him. “Excuse me, but I know what's happening. Let me talk to the dispatcher.”

 

His voice was soft, and Jumin handed him the phone without question, listening to him with half an ear as he watched your slow, hitched breaths and swollen face. Your eyes had closed at some point, and he wasn't sure if you were awake.   


“She's in anaphylactic shock,” the man was saying into the phone. “An allergic reaction, I can see that she's administered an EpiPen. Three minutes, maybe more? I was on the other side of the restaurant...” He covered the receiver and turned to Jumin. “Is she breathing?”

 

“Yes,” Jumin said, running his fingers over your face. Everything was red and puffy. He almost couldn't see your eyes.

 

The man listened for another minute. “What's her pulse like?” he asked Jumin.

 

His hands immediately went to your neck. “Fast. Weak.” His words were measured, careful, but he could feel the burn of tears threatening behind his eyes, hiding just underneath his barely controlled panic. What was happening to you?

 

“She's breathing. The swelling looks really bad, she swelled up like a blimp... she's all red. Okay. Okay, thank you.” The man hung up and put Jumin's phone on the table where you had been talking to him about the tides. Had it only been a few minutes ago? It seemed like so much longer than that.

 

“The ambulance should be here in a minute or two,” he said, voice still soft. When Jumin didn't respond, he continued. “She's got an epipen, so there's a good chance she'll be just fine. She also had it on her, so she knew about the allergy.”

 

Jumin still didn't acknowledge her. He was afraid that if he did, he might start crying.

 

“My name's Theodore, but you can just call me Theo,” he said with a smile. Then, most likely to distract him, Theo asked, “What's your favorite memory of your girlfriend?”

 

“My wife,” Jumin choked out. “She's my wife.” He closed his eyes, but two tears escaped anyways, falling onto your face as he cradled you gently in his arms.

 

“What's your favorite memory of your wife?”

 

* * *

 

His knee jerk reaction would have been to say his wedding day. And he did love his memory of you walking down the aisle, all gowned in soft lace and flowers, smiling at him like you were the only two people in the world. It was one of his favorite memories.

 

But it wasn't his most favorite.

 

No, his favorite was of you in Firenze, Italy, at the Piazza del Duomo. The look of awe on your face as you stared up at the Santa Maria del Fiore, and Brunelleschi's Dome sitting proudly on top like a crowning gem, would be forever burning into his memory.

 

You had told him about it months before. About how you'd always dreamed of visiting, ever since you were thirteen and had read about it in your Art History class in high school. About how with you always being sick and in and out of hospitals, there was never enough money to afford the trip.

 

He could remember every detail of your walk through the cathedral. You had been quiet as you pointed out where the assassins had lain in wait Easter Sunday to kill the Medici's, about how one brother died but the other lived, and how him standing back up, bloodied but alive, had roused the congregation into a fury as they went after the assassins.

 

He even remembered the dress you were wearing: white and knee-length, patterned with red butterflies.

 

* * *

 

Jumin Han did not like hospitals.

 

Something about them seemed... unreal to him. Impersonal, not-quite human, and reeking of chemicals.

 

Mostly, though, he didn't like how he had been relegated to the waiting room while you were in the back. They assured him you were being attended by doctors as they spoke, and he would get to see you as soon as you could have visitors, but it didn't mollify him. It didn't assuage his fears.

 

He must have been in the waiting room for hours. How long, he couldn't say for certain – at some point, he must have fallen asleep. But he woke up to someone gently shaking his shoulder, and when he opened his eyes, you were standing in front of him.

 

You looked pale and tired, but the redness was mostly gone, and your face was no longer swollen. Your smile was still beautiful.

 

“Hey.” Your voice was a hoarse whisper.

 

Jumin pulled you into his arms, holding you tight. You melted into his embrace and wrapped your arms around him, though your grip was weak.

 

After a few minutes, you pulled back. “Can we go home? I want to go home.”

 

“Of course,” Jumin said, standing and stretching to ease his stiff muscles. As the two of you walked out the door, he asked, “What happened?”

 

You didn't speak for a moment. “In addition to my asthma, I have allergies. Mostly general stuff – smoke, pollen, perfumes and colognes. And I'm deathly allergic to shellfish. Hence the... incident.”

 

Jumin called a taxi and was silent for a few minutes while you waited. “Why didn't you tell me?”

 

“To be honest?” You shrugged. “I forgot. It never really came up in conversation, and it's so easy to avoid shellfish in the day-to-day that it's never in the forefront of my mind.” There was a pause, and then, “I'm sorry if I scared you.”

 

Jumin took a deep breath. “I love you.”

 

You gave him a weak smile and pulled him into an embrace as the taxi pulled up. “I love you too.”

 

He pulled back slightly to open the door. “No more seafood places for the rest of the trip.”

 

You laughed, sliding into the car. “Jumin, we’re on the coast. We can’t just boycott seafood.”

 

He slid in next to you, twining his fingers with yours as you laid your head on his shoulder. “Then a shellfish boycott.”

 

You laughed softly. “I think that’s a good idea.”


End file.
